Stadler stared at the screen in front of him, sitting at a card table on a metal folding chair, some of the few things the church had in large supply. It was the /perfect/ location for a Multiple Precinct polling place, but not so much the last bastion of the living from the hordes of the undead. He hadn't been at the church with a good chunk of the Battalion and countless civilians when the helicopters started coming in, and there were... so, so few that had made it back to tell the tale of what happened. The most he could get was there had been a helicopter crash, a wide spread breach of the perimiter, and the supply situation was somewhat improved, due to the church being much more empty than it did last time.

Stadler didn't know if he could handle it, so he was doing what he could to distance. Staring at an Excel book, flipping from spread sheet to spread sheet. Tagging those who hadn't been at the muster at the Church or City hall MIA mostly, KIA for a few. It was a... interesting program. calculated supplies and automatically reformed squads. It had been meant for exercises where not everyone could attend, but it worked well enough when things kept.... dwindling.

Perimeter again. Trixie is beginning to feel as if she'd worn out more boot leather on this perimeter than her entire career as a RCPD officer and S.T.A.R.S. member, even though that couldn't literally be true. If it hadn't been for that assignment, she might have been at the park now, assisting the evacuation. Doing real good. Maybe helping Tobias be allowed into the camp was the right thing to do, but it had definitely had consequences; that Corporal had had friends in higher places in this unit, while she had no such connections. "At this rate, I'm gonna die on this perimeter. Of old age," she murmurs.

Footsteps behind her draw her attention, and she turns as she passes the gate, studying the man in Guard camo approaching her position. A week ago she would have assumed he was a friendly. Now, anyone could be a threat in friendly clothing. "Corporal Mackenzie?" he calls, pausing to salute, which she returns, noting the Private markings on his collar. "I'm your relief."

"Thanks," she replies softly, nodding and stepping inside the gate. "All's quiet out there. Does that make twenty-four hours without a single zombie sighting? I hope so. Comms're quiet."

"Thanks, ma'am. You should get some rest while you can."

"Noted. Good luck, Private. Hope you have a quiet shift." Trixie gives him a small smile and turns to walk back into the church.

Stadler clicked here. Then here, then here. Turning the terror that had given many of America's Colorado's minutemen a guresome, ignoble death into neat, manageable paperwork. 1.2 megabytes of a record that would probably sit on that laptop, buried in rubble, blood, and ofal, the last update shortly before the power went out for the last time.

Another bout of dark thoughts distracted him there. Stadler takes a deep breath for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. Coffee. That was one of the things he really missed, and the first thing the Church ran out of. It would also be several decades of winter in Hell because he switched to tea. Yeah, sure, that was before significant Caffinee withdrawl.

His eyes open for a moment, to see Trixie walking by the table, back into the church. Frowning as he noticed her stripes. A Corporal? Not a Specalist? A quick look over to the spreadsheet, then back at the woman. Name strip, name strip. There.

"Mackenzie!" He yelled out, attempting to catch her eye, before making at 'come here' motion with his hand. "Sit down."

Trixie pauses, glancing back at the caller. The gleam of the gold oak leaf on his collar catches her eye first, followed by the shape of that gleam of gold. A Major. Wondering how he'd recognized her at all, until she remembers that there are perhaps two S.T.A.R.S. members in the Guard, and one of them is both six feet tall and confirmed dead.She approaches the table and salutes smartly. "Sir!" Her S.T.A.R.S. apparel and armor at least keep the salute from looking ridiculous, but she and the seated Major are perhaps the most mismatched pair in here that can salute one another. Unless you count Specialist Lambert and her nightgown.

"Stop with the Mickey Mouse bullshit." He says, sounding every hour of sleep he's missed, geasturing to the folding chair in front of him for her to sit down. There's a bit of a wince from the man as he moves to sit, bending over and probing his leg for a moment. "Goddamn minigun." He mutters. Glasses readjusted as he gives Trixie a once over. "I can't say I'm happy with how you're dressed, but armor is armor, and that looks better than PASGT. You'll do me the favor of putting on some BDUs underneath it, I hope? Cops sort of collapsed and no one's going to trust one."

He tabs through some sheets on the laptop, settling on one cell. "No Internet, and if your records are back at the armory, no one though to lug that box out of here, but I see the Corporal stripes. Most of the E-4s I got are Specs. Not really NCOs. Give me a 1 minute background. You been to the Sandbox?"

Trixie takes the offered seat, blushing a little. "All I got, Sir. My stuff's back at my house, and I haven't so much as seen it since before we lost the police station," she replies, wearily, trying to cling to some semblance of civility to at least keep from digging herself into a hole she can't get out of. Tired officers are generally volatile officers. "I didn't even find out about the call-up until I got here from there. I don't own a uPhone, and my cel's been nothing but static for over a week."She shakes her head at the question. "Only been in a year tomorrow, Sir, so never had sand in my boots. Only ops I've been on have been strictly local." She looks at the salvaged Corporal's stripes pinned to the collar of her polo shirt, her only rank markings. Roughly a third of the black coating has been chipped off, showing dull bare metal beneath. "What else do you need to know?" The last is tired, but both polite and suggestive of trying to be helpful.

Well, that was a bust, but he really couldn't have everything. "There's spares, these days. One of the first places we went was an Army Surplus. A bit ratty, but it's a uniform." That was what he had settled on. It was partly true. Some of the gear was from Army surplus. The rest was from dead men and women who didn't need it anymore. "Everyone's taking the PASGT stuff, though, so I'd at least keep the armor." He says. He certainly doesn't sound violatle. Surly, /definitely/. "Good that you got here, though. Lord knows we're short on... so many people."

He pauses for a moment, his thoughts elsewhere, in front of a strip mall with a dozen soon-to-be-dead SEALs. Shaking his head. "Sorry, we- All right. I assume you didn't loot that gear. What's your day job? Are you 11B here?"

"Sound assumption, Sir," Trixie retorts softly, needled by the comment in spite of herself, and produces her S.T.A.R.S. Delta Team ID card, setting it on the table. "Maybe I'm barely three months in, but I /earned/ it. I've met only one person wearing it since it all went south, and while he wasn't S.T.A.R.S. himself, I'm sure he earned it if he's got it. The only examples are in the armoury of the police station, and no random looter's cracking /that/."She pauses and takes a deep breath. "Sorry, Sir... that's a bit of a sore spot for me. And yes, I'm 11B. I was in the groove for Military Police training before things fell apart."

Stadler nods to himself, making a mental note that the armory might still be intact at the police department. Might come in handy later. "That's me. Making a hypothesis and using the goddamn scientific method." He says, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes. "But that's what I wanted to hear. National Guard infantry for a year still means you went to Fort Benning. And you probably went through other training to be a cop that most of these people hadn't. So."

He moves to lean over, reaching into a duffel bah, sorting through a few plastic bags. One pulled out, sorted through, and he tacs down two collar pins on the card table. These one's with three stripes, not two.

"We've got... maybe a reinforced company here, and I don't have many NCOs left. Those I do have are Logistics and Quartermaster, not infantry. I'd want someone with more combat experience, but most of those died yesterday. If you can handle it, you're taking a squad in what's left of Bravo's 2nd platoon. If you can't, go to bed and I'll find someone who's got less of a handle for how much shit's going to get thrown at them." He looks at her expectantly.

Trixie blinks at the triple chevrons. Blinks again. Then she sighs softly and slowly, picking up the pins. "I guess someone's got to handle it," is all she says. "Get me a roster for Bravo 2nd and I'll try not to get them killed. Maybe I can at least teach them to shoot for the head."

"Someone does have to handle it." He says, nodding to the comment. "And I don't have anyone better. It's possible no one will know you've been promoted besides God and your uniform lapel, but evryone needs to step up these days. We don't have the ammo to practice marksmanship, but teach them the rest. Any other questions, Sergeant?" He does put the right amount of empahsis on the last word.

He'll also take out a notepad and a pen, and start to copy down names for the squad. It doesn't take him long, and there's so few on that list.

Trixie leans closer. "Yes... do I have a fever? Glazed eyes? Chills? 'Cause I sure feel delirious right now." A pause and a deep breath. "On a more serious note, what do you need us to do, and when? I'm used to taking orders, not giving them... can you give me a few to get me started, so I can figure out the rest?"

Richard Stadler sakes his head. "If you had those, I'd probably have to get someone to shoot you. I need you at the Church until I figure out otherwise, and now. I'll either let you know you're supposed to be somewhere else, or I'll be dead. Take what time you need, then get out there, Sergeant. That'll be all. Dismissed."